February 19-25, 2004

cover story

Meet the real heart of The Franklin Institute.

Walking the Beat

By Debra Auspitz
Photographs by Michael T. Regan

"I like to walk through the building and just listen."

For Leroy Jenkins, The Franklin Institute is more than a Philadelphia treasure or a cultural resource that's been teaching kids about science for decades. The 65-year-old Jenkins has been an operations engineer there since 1975. To him, The Franklin Institute is a part of his family.

Each day at 6 a.m., "Mr. Franklin" -- as some friends and family have dubbed him -- begins his nearly 30-year-old ritual of walking the 400,000-square-foot building. In about two hours, he does everything, from checking the status of the major operating systems and machinery to turning on half a dozen tiny table lamps in the executive offices. He travels from top to bottom, from above the oculus, an open dome with an awe-and-fear-of-heights-inspiring view of the building's front hall, down to the basement boiler rooms.

When he first got the job, The Franklin Institute didn’t even have air conditioners. These days, the climate control, fire alarms and several other systems can be managed from one computer in Jenkins’ basement office.

But the convenience of modern technology never stops Jenkins from making his rounds. "I take a physical look," he says. When the building is nearly empty, save for cleaning crews listening to gospel radio and sleepy-eyed employees getting an early start to the day, Jenkins employs all of his senses to get a feel for how his building is doing. He listens intently for the comforting sound of properly operating equipment and for the nearly imperceptible signs of trouble, like rushing air or a quiet drip of water. He looks at boilers, water pumps, elevator machinery, anything and everything mechanical in the building, taking down notes on areas that need attention later in the day. He sniffs in each section of the building, on alert for any sign of smoke in a malfunctioning machine. He touches pipes and vents, and stands still in different rooms to get a sense of the temperature.

His daily tour takes him through a building that has fascinated generations, but he is intrigued by more than its outward beauty or unique exhibits. "Every little detail" is how he describes his domain at the Institute. His travels take him past familiar and famous sights -- the giant walk-through heart, the Baldwin 60000 train installed while the Institute was under construction in the 1930s, the pendulum (though at 6 in the morning that particular attraction lies still). The roof offers a dazzling view of the city at sunrise, but Jenkins is more concerned about checking a leak he patched up there. He only rarely allows himself a moment to stop and appreciate his surroundings.

When he does, he's effusive in his praise. He's especially taken by the building's front hall and its national monument to Benjamin Franklin, a majestic 20-foot-high marble sculpture by James Earle Fraser. When light from the oculus glows softly on the room, Jenkins has to stop and catch his breath. "This is beautiful."

"A small leak will sink a great ship." --Benjamin Franklin

Jenkins is on call virtually 24 hours a day. Operational crises don't wait until 9 a.m. to strike. Take the time a less-than-diligent employee left the observatory roof open the night of a huge rainstorm (leaving the Institute's half-million-dollar telescope exposed). Not to worry: When Jenkins received the call at 2 in the morning, he was on the scene fast enough to crank the roof shut without any damage to the scope. Jenkins is often called in the middle of the night if a fire alarm trips or if there is a leak -- so often that his wife of 45 years, Rosalyn, occasionally requests that the phone be taken off the hook before they go to bed.

Though his job does not directly involve the exhibits, he is often asked to solve problems with the gadgets and gizmos that make the science museum a hands-on experience for kids. Even the most famous icon of all, the heart, needs maintenance from time to time. "They call me and say, "The heart's not beating,'" he says. "I say, "Better call a doctor.'"

View from the top: The oculus above Franklin Hall offers a unique perspective on the Institute's breathtaking architecture.

In the time he has been there, millions of visitors have passed through the building (708,765 in 2002 alone), and very few of them ever meet or even see Jenkins. He's the man behind the curtain, a figure in the shadows laboring to bring the rest of the building into the light. Sometimes he's literally behind the scenes, inside the walls of the building, accessing control panels and equipment via a number of hollow spaces and storage niches hidden by concealed doors within the exhibits and halls. He doesn't give lectures, nor does he demonstrate the science of the exhibits, but, whether they know it or not, every visitor has benefited from Jenkins' work.

There are plenty of people who do recognize Jenkins for the work he does, especially those who met him through extraordinary circumstances. He has a file of letters and cards from visitors he helped through the years, when he went above and beyond the call of duty -- way beyond.

In 1993, when the city experienced one of the worst blizzards in recent history, the Franklin Institute was practically the only place open on the Parkway after Jenkins made his way in early that morning to assure the building was up and running. It was a good thing for a young couple who had planned their wedding for that same day in another Parkway location, which was forced to close by the storm. The bride called the Institute's event-planning staff at noon to schedule an emergency reception for later that evening, and Jenkins stayed at work for almost 24 hours, shoveling snow, helping to set up the party, even hanging coats for guests at the understaffed affair. A letter in Jenkins' employee file expresses the sentiment of the couple that day: "There aren't many people that can say they've helped make dreams come true. On March 13, 1993, during the great blizzard of 1993, you helped make a couple's dream come true. Booking the wedding at 12:30 for a 5 p.m. start time was absolutely aggressive. Having the building ready -- in the middle of a blizzard -- was amazing."

Jenkins laughs off the long hours and unpredictable nature of his job: "I don't have problems, I have challenges."

"Energy and persistence conquer all things." --Benjamin Franklin

Outside of the Institute, Jenkins has spent his life facing "challenges" -- his own and for those he loves -- head on. He's been in Philadelphia for almost as long as The Franklin Institute's current building (he used to visit as a child), and his history, like the Institute's, has been full of rich and unique experiences.

Born in 1938, Jenkins grew up one of 12 children in the Eastwick section of Philadelphia. "It was different back then, you really had neighbors," he says. "It was like one big family out there, everybody worked together."

His father was in construction, and helped pave the runways of Philly International Airport when it was built. Jenkins used to ride his bike out onto those runways to bring his dad lunch every day. When Jenkins was 14, his father passed away, and three of Jenkins' siblings died when they were very young. In the years that followed, Jenkins was instrumental in helping his mother raise the rest of the kids. His mother never remarried, and she returned to school to become a nurse. Jenkins began working as a teen, providing extra cash for his brothers and sisters, especially around the holidays. "When we grew up, Leroy was the one that put our bicycles together," recalls his sister, Kathleen Jenkins. "At Christmas [he] helped my mother out. He was very helpful to my mother, he never told my mother no." Jenkins worked as a newspaper delivery boy and in a local luncheonette during high school. "I was sort of the backbone of the family," he acknowledges.

His guidance was essential in shaping the path his sister took in her life. When she decided she was interested in engineering, she says, "Leroy really was the one that pushed me really hard." When their mother doubted Kathleen's decision, "Leroy said, "Yes mom, that's where she should be, that's what she should do.'

"He's been my biggest fan," Kathleen says, with obvious emotion in her voice. "You know what I love about my brother? He never said, "You can't be an engineer.' He never looked at things [in terms of] what is "male' and what is "female.' He's just a fair person."

With Jenkins' encouragement, Kathleen did pursue engineering, getting her degree at Temple. She is currently an aerospace engineer for NASA.

Growing up, Kathleen says, Jenkins "was always good with mechanical things, tools and repairing things. He just had the basic instinct for that." She laughs at memories of Jenkins as a child -- "getting him out of bed was kind of difficult" -- and she recalls his athleticism and his time in high school as a pole vaulter. Jenkins still loves to be active, and this summer he purchased a bicycle that he sometimes rides to work from his East Falls home. He's also an avid roller skater.

After high school Jenkins went to various trade schools and began working full time almost immediately. Among other jobs, he worked at Hodge Record Manufacturers, where he started to learn about machinery. After that he worked in manufacturing for Paramount Records as an equipment manager, maintaining the machinery and helping to set the presses. In 1966 Jenkins was hired as a toolmaker for Boeing. He worked on the wing section of the original 747. "We never thought the 747 would get off the ground," he jokes.

His experiences at Boeing and Paramount have left a lasting impression. "I feel like I've accomplished something," he says, "'cause the 747 is still flying and [people are] still playing Fats Domino and Chubby Checker and Bill Haley."

Jenkins decided to work for The Franklin Institute years later, because "I did something for the country, now I wanted to do something for the kids."

Jenkins married Rosalyn in 1959, after dating for only three months. Their wedding was on Christmas Eve; "I only had to get one present," Jenkins jokes. The pair finishes each other's sentences, and they are fiercely devoted to one another. Jenkins promises with a grin that when he retires, "there's only going to be one other person that I have to worry about, and that's my wife. She gets the rest of [my time]. She gets what's left over." Is Rosalyn looking forward to that? "Sort of," she says, before dissolving into giggles.

Jenkins' other love is horses. He was taught to ride and shoe horses by Frank Rizzo's brother-in-law, and, he boasts, "I rode in Frank Rizzo's saddles." He used to teach children to ride and take them on hayrides, and he'd ride before work and "come in here smelling like a cowboy." He and Rosalyn still get dressed up to attend the Devon horse show each year.

Jenkins and Rosalyn have two daughters, Wanda and Darlene, and nine grandchildren. Nelson, Wanda's 15-year-old son, lives with Jenkins and Rosalyn. He's a student at Central High, and spends his free time at -- where else? -- The Franklin Institute. Jenkins got him involved in the Institute's PACTS program (Partnerships for Achieving Careers in Technology and Science), an afterschool organization that lets students learn and teach about science. Wanda is deaf, and Nelson also works at the Institute as a sign-language interpreter for hearing-impaired visitors.

When it comes to academics, Jenkins is adamant that learning is a family affair. "When we have a [school] project in this house, it's not just for one person, everybody does it," he insists. "How does a child know how to do it if you don't show it?"

Nelson's not the only family member Jenkins has gotten involved with the Institute. Kathleen comes in during the summer and does workshops at the Institute's Space Camp, teaching students about the Hubble telescope and other space projects with which she has been involved. And every time she is in Philadelphia, she says, "I have to stop by The Franklin Institute to see him and he has to show me to everybody, he's so funny." Jenkins admits he's overwhelmingly proud of Kathleen, "the baby" as he calls her, who grew up to be so successful.

"A person can't work cold; a person can't work hot." --Leroy Jenkins

Jenkins may be modest in his assessment of his own importance and success at the Institute, but his current and former co-workers are quick to heap praise on him.

"This building can't operate without an engineer inside at all times," Jenkins' boss, VP of Operations Richard Rabena, explains. "It doesn't get turned off, it doesn't get turned on."

Other Institute employees put it more bluntly: "Leroy's the man," "He takes care of us," "He does everything" and, especially, "He runs this place."

John McDevitt, who worked with Jenkins at the Institute from 1979 to '93, is now the vice president of operations at the Please Touch Museum. "Leroy owns The Franklin Institute. It's his building, no question about it," he says. "He's certainly one of the treasures of The Franklin Institute."

Jenkins is always quick to downplay his role. "That's not true that I run this place," he says. "I just enjoy myself."

But it's not all fun and games. Jenkins is in control of vital systems that go beyond issues of comfort. Temperature is particularly important in a building with the type of equipment and historical archives found in the Institute. For example, the massive projector used in the IMAX theater must have chilled water running through it at all times, or else the film, which costs $20,000 per print, could be destroyed. It's also important for Jenkins to quickly catch leaks and any other water problems in a building full of priceless artifacts and equipment -- remember the Orchestra's little sprinkler problem at the Kimmel Center?

Jenkins' supervisor, Director of General Services James Sweeney, points out that the building's age poses challenges for its engineers. "As much as we would like people to think that the Franklin Institute is state-of-the-art and cutting-edge, you'd be surprised how much old equipment we have here," he says. "I'd say probably almost half of this building is not computer-controlled." The Institute is in the middle of a $62 million campaign that will be completed in three years. At the end, Sweeney says, "we'll be pretty much 100 percent automated." That's not likely to stop Jenkins from taking his walks.

Point man: Up on the roof, Jenkins shows off the mechanics of the Institute's famous pendulum.

While any one of the building's four engineers is qualified to run the place, and Sweeney can even operate major systems from his home computer, Jenkins' experience and dedication make him stand out in his boss' eyes. "We'd have a hard time replacing him," Sweeney says. "He knows a lot of the little secrets of the building, little quirks and things like that. If he was to retire it would take me a long time to replace him with someone of that caliber." Jenkins trained the other three engineers, who range in age from mid-30s to early 50s, and Sweeney says that is no easy feat. "This is a hard building," he explains. "Most buildings you come into, an engineer can probably learn it in a couple weeks. This building, it takes you a couple months. It's very intricate."

Jenkins knows the building as well as anyone and often refers to it possessively: "my boilers," "my drains." The massive space features a labyrinth of exhibition rooms and office spaces over five floors, with control and fire alarm panels hidden in closets and crawlspaces throughout. Jenkins never uses a map, and he can always find his way, from the flashy and polished areas renovated in the past decade to the musty corners of long-neglected original spaces. "If something goes wrong," he reasons, "you must know where it is. And not tomorrow. Every little detail." Jenkins' key chain alone is daunting, a massive handful of clanging keys that often momentarily confounds even Jenkins. Good thing that over the years he has become adept at picking the building's locks in a pinch. It's all part of Jenkins' can-do attitude: "I just see what's in front of me and I handle it."

Derrick Pitts, the Institute's chief astronomer, has been around almost as long as Jenkins (27 years). In contrast to Jenkins, Pitts is a very public face for the Institute, a regular on the radio and in public lectures and programs. Pitts says of Jenkins' work, "I never think of it, which I think is the best way for it to be. I think Leroy's work goes a long way to make the building and whatever operational issues it may have disappear into the background, and that's a good thing." Beyond that, Pitts says, "I think Leroy also loves and respects what it is that The Franklin Institute represents.

"I've never, ever seen Leroy sitting down." Pitts ponders that for a moment and then repeats, more seriously, and somewhat incredulously, "This is a long time that I have been associated with this gentleman and I have never seen him sitting down."

"Look around! How can you say Franklin’s not alive?" --Leroy Jenkins

If it's true that the spirit of Franklin -- a love of learning and a yearning to discover new technologies, always presented in a clever and witty package -- is alive and well at his namesake institution, then Jenkins is one of the people most responsible for keeping it that way.

Jenkins' enthusiasm for the Institute is contagious. He deflects most questions about himself to drop another fact about an exhibit or event. He's especially proud of newer exhibition rooms like "KidScience," a hands-on space for the youngest visitors. He's equally at home showing off the soon-to-open exhibit "Inside Africa" or climbing the steep staircase to the oculus.

Jenkins sees the entire building several times a day, but he never takes it for granted. He rarely gets time to sightsee while he's working, and used a vacation day in order to show a reporter and photographer around the building one afternoon. During that day, he repeatedly mentioned his joy at spending his day off in the same place he spends all of his days on. Though he has no plans to retire any time soon, Jenkins admits, "even if I retired I'd still come back [here]. 'Cause it's really [enjoyable] when you come to The Franklin Institute."

When it comes to work ethic, it's hard to beat Jenkins. "He works -- I mean, he works," says astronomer Pitts. "He's from the old school where work is a good thing and your work should be above reproach because you have pride in what you do." Jenkins, he says, displays "the kind of dedication that you don't find in many kinds of institutions or businesses anymore."

Perhaps future visitors to The Franklin Institute, while exploring the heart or taking in a show at the planetarium, might see Jenkins running by, a one-man argument for the theory of perpetual motion, on his way from solving one crisis to heading off another. Maybe these visitors will stop and take notice of the man who makes the building comfortable, inhabitable and safe. Notice or no, it doesn't really matter.

Jenkins wouldn't want his role to be too prominent, or for the building's magic to be ruined by the revelation of all its operational secrets; it's somewhat traumatizing to watch Jenkins flip a circuit breaker to stop and start the heart's hypnotizing beat. And even if visitors wanted to get to know him, Jenkins is a hard man to pin down. His first priority is always the building. He's likely to leave you mid-sentence to run and make sure a door is closed properly. His co-workers only talk to him when he pops his head in to make sure everyone is comfortable: "Are your fingers cold?" "Does anybody need anything?" Other than that, an enthusiastic "Hey Leroy!" as he passes by has to suffice.

Whether visitors notice him or are able to track him down, Jenkins will continue to devote all of his time to the well-being of a city treasure. Even if you don't see him, he's always there.

"As long as the building's running," he says matter-of-factly, "you know I'm doing my job."